


Forget-me-nots

by artfulinanities



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Internal Conflict, Johnlock Roulette, Kinda, M/M, OOC Sherlock, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artfulinanities/pseuds/artfulinanities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting injured on a case, Sherlock wakes with no memory of the last ten years of his life. He's left in the care of one John Watson - his flatmate, apparently - and is forced to navigate the life of a stranger, discovering things about his current self that leave him feeling off-kilter and very much alone. Luckily, John is there to see him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget-me-nots

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Not reeealllyyy sure how these things work, but I've been reading some beautiful fanfics on this website and wanted to try my hand at it. Written and edited by an insomniac (hello, that's me), so I apologize for any typos.
> 
> Some things to know:
> 
> Temporary amnesia can be tricky to write about and stay true to the characters, so there is some OOC Sherlock in my fic. It was my best interpretation of the situation at 4 am, so I went with it.
> 
> John is really difficult to write, so I hope I did the character justice. He fluctuates between many different facets, so the side of him I tried to portray was the doctor/friend/rock.
> 
> Forget-me-nots have some neat history. There is a story about a knight, but there's some variation about myths and general backstory, so - for any detail-oriented people - I hope it's straightforward and true enough to appease everybody.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated, but above all, I hope you enjoy.

Sleep is an inconvenience, unconsciousness is an unfortunate necessity. While sleep is something that an individual chooses to do, unconsciousness is an inevitability that one most often endeavours to avoid. This is how Sherlock manages his fatigue: ignoring sleep and staving off unconsciousness until his transport betrays him and he falls prey to inane human habits. It goes without saying that after a certain point, his physical state is compromised, but Sherlock figures that the pros outweigh the cons where insomnia is concerned. The frenetic energy that comes with over 48 hours without sleep is a lens through which he can focus his intellect; it makes him sharp, it makes him fast.

 

It makes him brilliant.

 

The moments that he hates most are the ones between waking and nothingness. When he finally collapses after a bout of sleepless productivity, there are no dreams. There is only unconsciousness, and when he wakes, there are those few moments where there is nothingness, sensory limbo, before reality solidifies again. His mind is a hard-drive and he despises those moments where it has to reboot and he is boringly and decidedly _ordinary_.

 

When he feels the first shivers of awareness pulling him from slumber, it’s a relief and a burden in one. He waits for the onslaught on information that his senses will provide, the non-verbal cues of the universe that so many other people ignore. They come in spurts, each sense coming back on line separately, providing him with the pieces needed to paint a picture of the world around him.

 

Smell is always first. At home, there is the familiar scent of his shampoo on his pillow case, the sharp bite of London’s city air, the subtle aroma of sleep-warmed skin. Now, his nose registers the tang of antiseptic and the deep notes of cleaning astringent typically found in clinics and hospitals.

 

Sound is next. When he wakes at his flat, there is the rumble of traffic, the din of urban life. Now, his ears perk at the shrill pips of machinery and the white noise of distant voices.

 

Touch follows shortly after. His body registers background aches and pains, stiff sheets, and the pull of sutures in his skin.

 

Sight is next to last, his eyelids fading from black to pink as his optic nerves flare to life. It’s a stark transition brought about by artificial light, not the natural glow of sunlight filtering through a windowpane. He blinks slowly, his lashes sticking with the remnants of sleep. Pocked ceilings and bleak fluorescent lights greet him. Definitely hospital, then.

 

Taste makes its presence known in the acrid patina lingering on his tongue as he tries, in vain, to swallow. What little saliva he manages to produce is not enough to ease the sandpaper burn in his throat, but it soothes the initial discomfort.

 

“Sherlock,” a voice beside him gasps, the name full of wonder and relief. Sherlock turns his gaze towards the source of the voice, letting his eyes trail over the compact form of the man next to him.

 

His military service can be read in his posture and the lines of his face, his medical expertise in the way his eyes scan Sherlock’s body – checking his pupils, his breathing, his injuries – but he is no doctor at the hospital. The man is wearing jeans and a faded jumper, stubble framing his strong jaw. There is an air of danger to him in the set of his mouth and the placement of his hands; he is capable of both healing and hurting an individual, but the expression on his face – hope, joy, affection – say that he is not prone to abusing his darker abilities. At least, not against Sherlock.

 

But what is he doing here?

 

Sherlock clears his throat, forcing his mouth to form the words he wants to say, to shape the question he wants to ask. “Who are you?” he rasps, his brow furrowing as he takes in the man’s reaction. If he were to wax poetic, it was an expression akin to cutting off oxygen from a flame: a slow withering that is both beautiful and tragic in its finality. The blonde man’s face crumples, his shoulders drooping, as fear fills his eyes.

 

“Sherlock?” he tries again, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “It’s-it’s me. John.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock slides back as the man steps forward. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

 

“I’m, ah,” the man blinks, his eyes suspiciously bright in the drab lighting. “I’m your flatmate, Dr. John Watson. We live together, at Baker Street, and, uh, I help you with your work. Please, Sherlock, if you’re having me on, this isn’t funny.” The man – John – is wringing his hands, the skin of his knuckles fading and flushing as his grip constricts and relaxes.

 

“I’m not having you on, Dr. Watson. I…how did I get here?”

 

“Oh God,” John sinks further into his chair, blunt fingers slipping between the longer strands of his silver-blonde hair. His breathing becomes shallow and erratic – panic attack, brought on by stress – his shoulders shake as he heaves, eyes squeezed shut. It’s disturbing, watching this stranger fall apart, when it should be Sherlock panicking over the obvious gap that this man insists exists in his memories. John clamps one hand over his mouth, slowing his breathing. Sherlock can see the gears turning in his mind, watches him come to grips with the situation. Ever the soldier, he turns to Sherlock and begins to address the problem.

 

“Right. What year is it?”

 

“2007.”

 

“No, actually,” he laughs shakily. “It’s 2017. What is the last thing you remember?”

 

“I,” Sherlock frowns. 2017? That can’t be right. “I was…at my flat on Montague. Doing an experiment. My landlord had threatened to kick me out if I caused any more explosions, so it was just observing the breakdown of linoleum with different acids. And then…” there was cocaine, but he’s not terribly inclined to tell a complete stranger that he’s a junkie.

 

“It’s 2017. I met you in 2012 at St. Bart’s. A mutual friend of ours introduced us.”

 

“Friends?” Sherlock chews on his bottom lip. “I…I don’t have friends.”

 

“You do. There are a lot of people who care very deeply about you,” John leans forward, extending a hand as if to pat Sherlock on the knee, but the taller man recoils violently, crying out as the movement jostles his IV and sutures. John’s face crumples again, but he sits back with a murmured apology. Sherlock trembles slightly, confused. This can’t be real. The last thing he remembers is the experiment.

 

And the cocaine. He must have overdosed. But then how…

 

A knock at the door alerts the men to the presence of another visitor, this one both familiar and unwelcome. All of the pieces fall into place and Sherlock lashes out, his tongue his weapon of choice.

 

“Piss off, Mycroft, you fat, meddling bastard. I am extremely displeased with your latest attempt at sobriety. Fabricating an entire life for me while I’m recovering from an overdose? That’s an appalling stunt to pull, even for you. I suppose I should commend you on your choice of actor, though. He almost had me convinced until you decided to show your smug face.”

 

For once, Mycroft is speechless, Sherlock’s vitriol lending an unsettling pallor to his skin that is both satisfying and disturbing. Ever the Holmes, he regains his bearing quickly, clearing his throat and walking stiffly to Sherlock’s bedside.

 

“As difficult as this may be to believe, brother mine, I had no hand in this. You did not overdose; you received a blow to the head while chasing a criminal through London’s back alleys. Apparently, you’ve suffered a high degree of memory loss as a result.”

 

“You can’t be serious, Mycroft! Cases? For whom? New Scotland Yard is filled with vapid imbeciles who are incapable of solving any type of crime unless the perpetrator has been trussed up and served to them on a silver platter. Last I remember, they ejected me for trespassing on a crime scene while inebriated,” Sherlock drawled, glaring at his brother. “This is absurd. Release me at once and go stick your abnormally large nose into someone else’s business.”

 

“Sherlock, look at your arm,” his brother instructs, waving his hand at the crook of his left elbow with intent. The younger Holmes sighs, knowing full well that he will be greeted by the familiar pointillism sketch of needle marks, the latest flushed bright red from his misadventure with the 7% solution. He turns, eyes snapping to the skin as if to prove a point, but he halts.

 

His arm is smooth, tiny silver dots, visible only when he tilts his arm just so, sit nestled in the soft skin of the joint. There are no fresh marks, no healing wounds. They must be at least…five years old, maybe more, given the texture.

 

Bloody buggering _fuck_.

 

“It wasn’t an overdose, then,” he grunts, turning back to John and his brother. The former looks ill, a greenish tinge settling into his ashen skin. The latter looks discomfited, as though his suit is too tight.

 

“No,” John chokes out. “You’ve been clean since late 2008, for good.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade down at New Scotland Yard. You assist with crime scenes providing that you adhere to sobriety.”

 

“Assist with crime scenes? They finally let me on? But why have I kept doing it for so long? Oh. Obvious. For the challenge. I do so hate being bored and I need something to occupy my mind without the drugs.”

 

“Bit not good, Sherlock,” John mutters and Sherlock ducks his head in acknowledgement, frowning at the involuntary response. Why did he do that? “You’re a consulting detective, the only one in the world. You get called in when the police are out of their depth –”

 

“Which is always,” Sherlock huffs, remembering his frustrations over the Carl Powers case.

 

“Yeah,” John smiles sadly. “Anyway, you solve the crimes and I blog about it.”

 

“You’re my blogger?”

 

“Dr. Watson is your physician, your flatmate, your blogger, and your general handler,” Mycroft intones drily, inspecting his cuticles. “I will inform the doctors that you have awakened. The memory loss will call for some tests and they will likely keep you for observation. Do try to behave.” He leaves with a flourish of his umbrella, striding from the room with the lethargic grace of a pampered house cat.

 

“Good to see the sibling rivalry existed before I came into the picture,” John muses, watching Mycroft leave with an ambiguous expression. Sherlock harrumphs, flopping back onto the pillows as his mind begins to reel.

 

God, he’s missing ten years of his life. Ten years of cases, of experiments, of learning.

 

And John. John fits in there, too. But why is that so important?

 

“Who are you, John? To me?” The blonde starts at the question, head tilted to one side as he considers his answer.

 

“I’m your best friend,” he answers simply, his smile sad and broken.

 

“Oh. Well, you’re either insane or stupid. No one likes me.”

 

“I do. I’ve put up with you long enough, haven’t I?”

 

“I wouldn’t know.” The words are bitter, burning his tongue as he spits them between clenched teeth. Why is he so angry? Why does not remembering one man leave him feeling so…lost?

 

The doctors arrive and schedule a plethora of tests, quizzing Sherlock and spitting out words like ‘retrograde amnesia’ and ‘blunt force trauma’. He drowns them out, leaving John – supposedly a constant fixture in his life – to handle the paperwork and procedures. Sherlock ventures into his mind palace, distressed by the disrepair of two entire wings. There are scraps of paper littering the crumbled floors, bits of information that, at one point in time, were important, but are now useless in the wake of such devastation. He comes back to reality on his way to a CT scan, panicking at John’s absence. But why?

 

“John? John?”

 

“I’m here, Sherlock,” his voice crackles over the intercom. “They let me into the observation room. I’ll be right here the whole time.” That, in and of itself, is a comforting thought. John, a complete and total stranger, should have no such sway over Sherlock’s carefully concealed emotions. And yet, his presence is soothing, his voice a tether while the rest of the world has left him adrift.

 

The damage is minimal, the prognosis positive. He is released into John’s custody the following morning with a warning to return if his symptoms worsen. John nods gravely, taking the neurologist’s words to heart before bundling Sherlock into a cab and taking him home.

 

Wherever that is.

 

“This is, um, our flat.” He ushers Sherlock to the kerb after paying the cabbie, his voice strained. “221B. Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, lives below us. You…ensured that her husband was executed in Florida and she lets us live here for a lower rate.”

 

“I…ensured a man’s execution?”

 

“Yes, well…he wasn’t a very nice man.” That phrase seems familiar, but the spark of recognition fizzles as he pushes open the door and steps into an unfamiliar foyer, his mind unable to place it. The small woman who smells of vanilla and crushes him to her is equally as foreign, but her smile is warm, so there is something there to build upon. “We’re up here.” John leads him up the seventeen step to their flat, unlocking the door and allowing Sherlock to step into the alien space. There are things that he recognizes among the clutter, objects that are most definitely his own scattered about the room. His beloved violin sits perched on a low armchair, his skull greets him with a macabre grin from the mantle, and his dagger gleams where it sits embedded in a….Cludeo board? That is definitely a story worth exploring.

 

“Tea?” John calls, disappearing into another room, most likely the kitchen. Sherlock grunts his affirmative before wandering around the room, running his fingertips over every surface as though he could absorb the memories of the space through touch alone. John returns as he’s exploring the bookshelves, admiring the eloquent dust surrounding the volumes that sit in disuse. From the breaches in the dust line, he can observe which tomes are important and which are forgotten. They help him paint a picture of the people who live here – two strangers, really, because although he knows himself, he does not know John, just as John does not know this version of him.

 

“Here. Um…come sit and…I can try and…fill in the gaps, I suppose.” John sits in the red armchair with the afghan thrown haphazardly over the back. Sherlock moves his violin and folds himself into the opposite seat, curling his hands around the mug as he takes a sip of tea. His eyebrows migrate towards his hairline.

 

It’s perfect. Just the way he like it. No one has ever been able to get it right.

 

“Yeah, you groused at me enough before I got it right. Took me about a month.”

 

“Can you tell me…more about my work?” Sherlock takes another sip, comforted by the familiar flavour of tea spreading over his tongue and down his throat.

 

“Well, honestly, the best thing for you to do would be to read my blog. That’s where I post the interesting cases, the ones you give a six or higher – you have a rating scale for cases and won’t leave the flat for anything more than a six unless you’re _really_ bored.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. Other than that…you consider yourself married to your Work. And it’s capitalized, the Work, that is. It’s the most important thing in your life.” The statement leaves Sherlock feeling off-kilter, as though it rings false in his mind palace. There is something more important than the Work, that much he knows, but what?

 

Or whom?

 

“Usually, you experiment in the kitchen, drug me, keep body parts in the fridge, shoot the walls with my Browning, torture your violin at ungodly hours, fight with Mycroft, leave entrails in the bath, deduce the people who make you angry and make them cry, and generally piss off every member of the NSY when you go to crime scenes.”

 

“How are you still living with me? I sound…awful,” Sherlock gapes. Body parts in the fridge – that is fascinating. But shooting the walls? Making people cry? That’s a bit…not good. He frowns. Why think of it that way? It never mattered before.

 

Did it?

 

“You’re not that bad, actually. You’re…brilliant.” John’s smile is shy, his eyes lowered, but Sherlock can read a million different things in his expression, from the faint pink in his cheeks to the curve of his lips, and what he sees makes _something_ in his chest flutter.

 

 

But John said they were best friends.

 

Weren’t they?

 

John clears his throat, rising and snagging a laptop from the cluttered desk between the windows. “Here,” he opens the computer to a blog, passing the device to Sherlock. “Read through them and see for yourself.” Sherlock nods slowly, wrapping spidery fingers around the whirring computer. The blog is relatively plain and straightforward, but its contents are remarkable. In many ways, John’s blog reflects the man himself – outwardly unassuming, but secretly amazing. Sherlock blinks at the thought, so close to sentiment, and returns the laptop to the desk. By now, night has fallen, their sitting room a chiasmata of crepuscular shadow and sodium highlights. John’s chair is empty, the mugs cleared, and the kitchen tidied up. At some point, while Sherlock was attempting to fill the missing ten years of his life, John had made himself scarce, perhaps wanting to give his flatmate space. No one wants a stranger hovering over their shoulder.

 

Somehow, the space makes him feel all the more alone.

 

***

 

Sherlock stands in the middle of the kitchen, a blank expression on his face as he stares into the fridge.

 

“Sherlock?” John pokes his head in from the sitting room, watching his flatmate carefully. “All right?”

 

The brunette doesn’t respond, verdigris eyes fixed on a rotting foot. The urge to lash out, to break something, to scream and yell and terrorize anything and anyone within the vicinity burns low and hot in his stomach. The fridge is only one part of it, one small piece of the puzzle, but it’s the tipping point. He can feel the hold on his emotions slipping, feel the frustration and anger and confusion waging war beneath his skin.

 

It’s been two weeks, and he doesn’t remember anything.

 

It’s been two weeks, and he can’t remember any of his experiments, his cases, his acquaintances, or his enemies.

 

It’s been two weeks, and he’s had enough.

 

The first plate is satisfying, the splintered shards spraying all over the floor. The second plate is just as wonderful, the mug, glass, and tumbler even more so. He throws them one after the other, allowing the cacophony of fracturing porcelain and exploding glass to wash over him. It’s a panacea for his frayed nerves, a balm to his burning temper.

 

And then it’s over.

 

There’s nothing else to throw, nothing fragile left within reach, and he stands there, just as empty as he’d felt before the outburst, still just as confused. Still lost.

 

God, he hates it.

 

Warm hands settle on his biceps, holding him upright as his body begins to shake. Calloused fingers tighten on blue silk, pulling Sherlock away from the broken dishware and into a warm embrace. He should hate it, being touched by a stranger, but as the rest of his world turns upside down, John is the only thing that remains constant. John is like Polaris, guiding him out of the fugue of frustration and despair back into reality, pulling out his old belongings and introducing Sherlock to his other self. John is an anchor, keeping him tethered as foreign emotions toss him about in a maelstrom of sentiment. John is there, even when everything else isn’t.

 

Somehow, that’s enough.

 

***

 

He tucks his violin under his chin, attempting to bury the hollow ache in his chest under sonatas and symphonies. Sherlock plays until there is only the music, oscillating from _adagio_ to _allegro_ and back again, the strings and frets digging into the pads of his fingers. He remembers first learning to play the violin; the cramping in his hands, the burning in his fingertips, the fatigue in his arm as he learned to wield the bow, the itch at his neck and chin. Everything is fluid now – _legato_ – but he remembers.

 

And yet, there are parts of his mind that remain frustratingly blank.

 

Sherlock’s fingers move of their own volition, his arm following suit, a soft and sweet melody filling the empty cavity in his chest. He feels whole, complete. It trickles off into the darkness, soft applause chasing the dying notes from the air.

 

“That was beautiful.”

 

“John,” Sherlock starts, tucking his violin away. It feels terribly intimate, to have played such an emotional song in front of this man, whom he still perceives as a stranger. “W-what,” he clears his throat, starting over after the sharp, undignified squawk that bubbled out of his throat. “What are you doing up? Did I wake you?”

 

“No, Sherlock. You didn’t wake me. Nightmares,” John whispers, settling into his chair, his tan face looking drawn in the orange glare of the street lamps.

 

“Ah. Obvious. PTSD after your tour of Afghanistan.”

 

John laughs, a dark and tight sounds. “No. It wasn’t Afghanistan.”

 

“Then it was my playing…?”

 

“No, actually. You know…before,” he waves vaguely at Sherlock’s head. “I would sit on the stairs while you were playing and listen. It helped a lot, actually. We, ah, both pretended that it didn’t happen, in the morning, but…”

 

Sherlock’s chest feels tight, as though John’s words have wiggled between his ribs and wrapped themselves around his heart, squeezing the chambers together. “Would you…like me to play for you?” John looks up, eyes wide, his lips tight. He nods stiffly, relaxing as Sherlock picks up his Strad and resumes his concerto.

 

***

 

“Sherlock, do you remember the Detective Inspector that came to visit just after you were released?” Sherlock rolls over from his sulk on the sofa, glaring at John.

 

“Of course. I’m suffering from retrograde amnesia, not chronic stupidity,” he snips, turning and folding himself into a tight ball, his face buried in the back of the sofa.

 

“Right, then. Well, he just texted me. He has a case, if you’re feeling up to it.”

 

Sherlock freezes, his entire body stiffening, long limbs locked in a compact bundle as his brain grinds to a halt. The lure of a case, of a puzzle, is tempting – oh so very tempting – but there is trepidation lurking in the wings of his mind. Will he be able to do it, to deduce as his counterpart had? Will it be the same as all of these strangers are hoping for?

 

Will he still be brilliant?

 

The last thought startles him, the word never one he’d applied to himself often, but had been a constant source of anxiety since waking in the hospital with no recollection of the past ten years. It’s an irrational fear, but it clings to his ribs and floods his lungs – a viscous tar that steals the oxygen from his systems and clogs his veins.

 

In some ways, he feels less and less like himself as the days wear on, his iron grip on his emotions waning as his world becomes a tumultuous jumble of loose ends and misguided expectations. From what John has told him, he is very little like the Sherlock they all knew. If he isn’t that Sherlock, and he isn’t himself, then who is he? And will this new Sherlock, this strange character that is neither a past nor present incarnation of the consulting detective, be able to do what the other two had done?

 

“We don’t have to, Sherlock. We can stay in. It’s fine. It’s all fine.” Sherlock sits up and shakes his head, pulling his knees under his chin. Eventually, he will have to emerge from his self-inflicted isolation. Why not start today, with the promise of a puzzle dangling in front of his face?

 

“No, I’ll go.” He pries himself from the sofa, padding softly down the hallway to his room. It had startled him at first, the barren abode far more impersonal than he’d expected, given the warmth with which his acquaintances had received him; he’d expected more personal touches, a little _something_ to give insight into the being inhabiting the space. The immaculate rows of bespoke suits were a far cry from the denims and sweatshirts he’d favoured for his ‘not good’ excursions into London’s seedy underbelly, but he enjoyed the luxurious feel of the fabric beneath his fingertips. He’s stayed in his pyjamas since checking out of the hospital, but now, he dons dark, fitted trousers and a white shirt, fastening the cuffs and doing up the buttons with trembling fingers. He’s afraid. How preposterous.

 

Sherlock slides the jacket over his shoulders as he strides out into the sitting room, fully dressed and ready for battle. John watches him from his chair, his face twisted into something both sad and proud as he tucks his mobile into his pocket.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock grabs a greatcoat from the rack, surprised that it fits him perfectly. Then again, it looks much too long for John’s compact frame, so it must be his. Its weight is comforting around his shoulders, but he feels incomplete.

 

“Here,” John passes him a soft blue scarf, eyes twinkling. Sherlock takes it and wraps it around his neck, looping it and sliding the ends through so that it cradles his neck gently: a cashmere hangman’s noose. “Perfect,” John hums, standing with his arms folded as he appraises the detective. “You’ll certainly make the Yarders think twice about any snide comments.”

 

“Are you…will you come?” Sherlock jams his hands deep into his pockets, hating the insecurity, the confusion, the _emotion_ that leaves him dependent on his flatmate. But he wants him there, wants him to help guide him back to where they’d been before, or, at least, some semblance of it.

 

“Oh, God, yes,” John grins, grabbing his bomber and prodding the lanky brunette out the door and out into the crisp fall air of London.

 

The crime scene is gory, vivid crimson streaks dividing the walls into macabre grids, an amalgam of body parts occupying each one. John hisses between his teeth, his hand darting out to grab Sherlock’s elbow. The casual touches had taken time to adjust to, but now, he’s grateful to have John there, to be connected to him as he takes in the carnage spread out before them. His brain processes the information immediately, answers fliting across neurons before he even has time to realize what he’s doing.

 

“Wrong.” The word slips from his lips before he can stop it, biting through the silence unbidden. The DI – Gavin, Gary, Geoff – looks up from his spot beside a forensic tech, his face grim.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s,” he swallows, suddenly unsure. “It’s wrong.”

 

“What’s wrong about it, Sherlock?” John prompts, tightening his hold on the taller man’s elbow.

 

“The blood. There’s too much of it. The human body contains, on average, 10 pints, or 4.7 litres, of blood. There are approximately 14 pints of blood scattered about the room, given the spread of the grids, the diameter of the puddles on the floor, and the excess absorbed into the curtains and the rug. Too much.” He steps forward slowly, hesitant, uncertain. “Also, there are two left feet and two right hands, all four of which belong to separate individuals with slight variations in skin tone. You can see the variations in the undertones thanks to the lighting. The cuts are clean and precise: access to proper equipment and the knowledge to dismember the human body, but there are small scratches on the upper forearm and upper thigh – hesitation. They’re still young, but have extensive knowledge of human anatomy. Med or pre-med student seems most likely.” Sherlock gestures to appendages affixed to the walls, his eyes narrowing. “If you look at the range of the spray pattern and the placement of the puddles, it’s far too random to have been from a single homicide, as the killer wishes for us to believe. It’s likely that the blood was staged, sprayed by manual means rather than the result of torture. The staging, in addition to the excess volume of blood and the random assemblage of body parts, indicates that the killer has been planning this for some time. Premeditated then, and reasonably well executed. They’re smart. Look into the missing person’s reports, focus on young Caucasian _females_ – going by the manicured nails and indents from jewelry – and check to see if there is any frost damage to the tissue and the blood. If so, look into pre-med students who have recently suffered the termination of a relationship. The planning, the preparation, the arrangement…an organized and flamboyant crime like this speaks of narcissism, a desire to be seen, to be acknowledged. This is often a feeling experienced by narcissistic individuals, or those who have a distorted self-image, who have recently been left by a romantic partner or experienced a loss they feel is unfair.”

 

“Brilliant,” John exclaims, and Sherlock’s world stops.

 

He did it. He solved a crime, just like the old Sherlock.

 

“I, um…” he flounders, feeling lost now that the puzzle has been solved. According to the blog, he should be stealing samples and sneaking off to the lab to solve the crime all on his own, John in tow, but he feels…out of place, out of time. The pull is there, the desire to see it through, but could he do it? Is it one too many things to ask for in a day? “May I take a tissue and blood sample to Bart’s?” He turns to Lestrade, puzzled by the shock colouring his features until he realizes he just asked for permission to use evidence instead of just taking it. Damn John and his manners.

 

“Knock yourself out,” Lestrade shrugs, turning back to his team and barking out orders. Sherlock grabs a pair of gloves and gathers samples from every body part, passing the containers off to John who places them – labeled in his neat block script – into a bag. The blood is next, taken from the four corners of the room and the center, the swabs carefully labeled and packaged as well.

 

“Bart’s?” John asks, sealing the bags as they stride away from the crime scene.

 

“Bart’s,” Sherlock confirms, sweeping out of the room with his blogger on his heels.

 

***

 

He’s avoided mirrors since returning from the hospital, refusing to wipe off the steam after a shower or leave his wardrobe open to expose the full length mirror. Only when fully clothed will he brave a confrontation with his reflection, slowly acclimatizing to the changes he can see in his own features. There are lines around his eyes and brows – subtle, the telltale lines of human expression that engrave themselves into the skin over time. His hair is longer, curling wildly about his head in a brown forest of silky locks; a texture brought about by the ridiculous shampoo and conditioner that he loves. His verdigris eyes are unchanged, the brown freckle still peeping out from one iris, but he can see the difference that ten years have made.

 

If his face has changed this much, what has happened to the rest of his body?

 

He doesn’t like inhabiting a vessel that feels like it belongs to someone else.

 

He ignores the ridges under his palms when he showers, keeps his chin up when he changes, deleting the texture and flashes of skin that he sees.

 

Sherlock doesn’t want to know.

 

He’s already missing a part of his mind. Who would want someone whose body could be broken as well?

 

***

 

The mistake happens when he leaves the door slightly ajar during his shower.

 

He’d left the windows in the sitting room open, craving the smell of London as he puttered around the flat, staving off the boredom between cases by inhaling second-hand smoke.

 

John had shoved him bodily towards the bathroom after a particularly violent session of auditory abuse at the hands of his mad flatmate armed with a violin, his mouth drooping in annoyance. Sherlock had relented, grumbling the whole way.

 

There was no denying that the shower helped to lift his mood, the soft scent of shampoo bolstering his spirits. Feeling refreshed and moderately abashed over his earlier behaviour, he turns off the spray and steps out of the bath, towelling his curls as he goes. As the terry cloth is wrapped around his waist, he turns to grab his watch from the sink, catching sight of his reflection in the clear surface of the mirror.

 

The cold air seeping through the crack between the door and the frame leaves the air cool enough to negate excessive condensation on the mirror, giving Sherlock a clear view of his body.

 

Oh, God.

 

A latticework of scars decorates his torso, thin strips and jagged lines co-mingling on the canvas of his skin. Shimmering silver scars, vibrant pink puckered wounds, and angry red craters stand out against the creamy white skin, the vivid contrast leaving him breathless. His back is even worse than his front, obvious signs of torture leaving their legacy in the lithe musculature. It’s horrible and disgusting and shameful.

 

And he doesn’t remember any of it.

 

Apparently, he made some noise of alarm, because John is there, standing in the doorway as Sherlock drags his fingers over the ruined flesh of his body.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” he breathes, catching the younger man as his legs give out.

 

“N-no!” Sherlock pushes him away, sliding to the floor. “Don’t touch me!”

 

“Does it hurt? Are you in pain? Talk to me, Sherlock,” John implores in his doctor voice – calm and soothing, inspiring confidence in his abilities and comfort under his touch. Sherlock shakes his head, hands fisted in his damp curls. “Talk to me. Let me help you.” He reaches out again, but the brunette pulls away.

 

“Don’t touch me,” he chokes out, wedging himself further into a corner.

 

“Why, Sherlock? I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“I’m disgusting,” he whispers, rocking back and forth. “I…I don’t know who I am, I can’t remember ten years of my life, I feel like I’m living a lie, and I’m covered in scars that I can’t remember getting…I’m…I’m broken.”

 

“Oh, love,” John reaches out, pulling the taller man into his arms despite his protests, curling around him protectively. Sherlock pushes against his chest feebly, straining to get away, but it’s too much to handle on his own, so he lets John comfort him, burying his face in the doctor’s neck as he cries.

 

At some point, John rouses him enough to pull him to bed, enveloping the brunette back into his arms under a nest of blankets, his denims scratching the bare skin of Sherlock’s legs. He falls asleep listening to the beat of John’s heart, calloused fingers stroking over the scars as though his touch could erase the hurt from his skin and the doubt from his mind.

 

***

 

“What happens if I never regain my memories, John?”

 

John is silent, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls as he lays with his head in the doctor’s lap, his brain attempting to tear itself apart due to the lack of stimulation.

 

“I don’t know, Sherlock.”

 

The detective curls his knees closer to his chest, feeling a hollow ache settle beneath his ribs.

 

How is it possible to miss something you can’t even remember?

 

***

 

Sometimes, John does things that make Sherlock’s stomach attempt a career as a Chinese gymnast. They’re little things, inane things, that he probably took for granted…Before. The way his tea is always perfect, the way John compliments him on a case, the way John gripes good-naturedly about the body parts in the fridge, the way John acts as his moral compass – the Libra of ‘Good’ and ‘Not Good’ – the way John touches him casually to ground him in reality while he explores the ruins of his mind palace, searching the rubble of the two wings for clues from his old life, the way John’s hands glide over his scars as he stitches up new wounds.

 

If he never appreciated John Before, he was an idiot.

 

***

 

“John,” Sherlock stares at the tiny blue flowers peeping out of an Erlenmeyer flask on his bureau, their tiny yellow centers winking at him.

 

“Yes?” the doctor pops his head around the door, hair still damp from the shower.

 

“What are these?”

 

“Forget-me-nots,” John smiles, stepping into the room.

 

“Why?”

 

“D’you know there’s a story behind them? Supposedly, a knight fell into the river and drowned trying to give these flowers to his lady. He threw them to her as he sunk and asked her not to forget him. Lovers who wore them were supposedly never forgotten by their partners.” John sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees as he leans forward on his elbows. “Um, I know that you may not remember everything, and that bothers you, but…we won’t forget you, yeah? No matter whether or not you can ever remember any of us the way you used to, we’ll always remember you, even if this is the new you to remember.”

 

Sherlock gapes at John, his heart screaming as warmth spreads through his chest. There is no way he deserves this man’s kindness, this man’s patience, or this man’s unconditional support. And yet, he has it.

 

He wants to consume him, to merge John’s atoms with his own, to possess him and fill him and be filled by him so that even their blood flows as one. He wants to _devour_ John, body and soul, to keep this wonderful, beautiful, loving man as his and his alone.

 

That is definitely Not Good.

 

***

 

Sherlock wants to know everything about John. His flatmate – no, best friend – has filled him in on the details that he’s missing, but there’s more. Sherlock wants to know how John’s skin tastes when he’s writhing and moaning in the throes of passion, wants to see how the taste changes as the sweat dries on his skin as he falls asleep, wants to lick the briny residue from his skin while he’s warm and pliant from sleep. He wants to hear every sound that John can make, wants to learn how to pull wanton moans from his lips, wrench groans from deep in his chest, wants to make him keen in desperation, and whimper with desire. He wants to touch every inch of John’s body and chart the changes in texture with his lips and hands and teeth, wants to feel the peaks and valleys and hollows and arches of his compact frame, wants to squeeze and poke and prod and grasp to feel the steadfast resistance of bone, the give of cartilage, the firm strength of muscles, and the soft cushion of skin. Sherlock wants to examine every pore, every follicle, every scar, every imperfection, and memorize it, wants to create a photo album in his mind palace, a different volume for every section of John’s body, wants to see every expression on his face and treasure it – the good, the bad, and the ugly – so that he knows how to bring out the beautiful and bury the beastly. He wants to smell John – his hair, his skin, his breath, his musk – and learn the subtle variations between the crease of his arm and the crease of his thigh, wants to be able to know John inside and out by only one sense alone so that no matter whether he is blindfolded, gagged, bound, congested, or has his ears blocked, he can use one of his senses to identify the amazing man he lives with.

 

The amazing man he loves.

 

There is a part of him that is angry with his other self, that wants to go back in time and yell at him, to tell him that he has been given an amazing man that he loves unconditionally and unequivocally. This part of him wants to tell his other self that he wasted years, _years_ , that he could have spent loving this man.

 

He hates his old self, because his old self knew John through first meetings and swimming pool fiascoes, through drugged experiments and rooftop confessions, through returns from the dead and messy divorces, but he doesn’t. He knows the stories, but he wasn’t there. He had it all, and he was an idiot, taking a blow to the back of the head and wiping it all away.

 

Sherlock hates the old him, but he understands him, too.

 

If you’ve been given such an amazing gift, wouldn’t you do everything in your power to keep it, even if that meant sacrificing your own happiness?

 

***

 

There are days when he still has the mind of an addict, even though his body no longer experiences the physical cravings. On the ‘black days,’ as Mrs. Hudson calls them, his addiction whispers sweet nothings into his ear, calls to him from the back alleys of London, purrs seductions and dirty promises into his ear as he lies on the sofa, wrapped in his dressing gown with his head pillowed on John’s lap.

 

Once, he’d used methadone in an attempt to help kill his cravings.

 

Now, he uses John’s scent and the feeling of blunt fingers tracing idle patterns on his scalp.

 

***

 

“What are you to me?” Sherlock asks, head lolling in John’s lap as he comes down off of 52 hours without sleep, his transport rallying against his mind as it pulls him towards sleep’s open arms.

 

“I’m your best friend.”

 

“Wrong,” he slurs, blinking against the pressure at his temples. “You’re my whole world. My sun. The centre of my universe.”

 

John pauses, looking at him with bright eyes. “I thought the solar system didn’t matter.”

 

“It doesn’t. But you do. And I love you, so it’s good to know that I revolve around you. My sun. Or moon. But mine. My Conductor of Light.” He sleeps, hands fisted in John’s jumper, the three weighty words lingering on his tongue as sleep becomes unconsciousness and he surrenders himself to oblivion.

 

***

 

“ _John_.”

 

There is so much that remains unspoken in that single word, the hidden meanings and implications sending shivers racing down John’s spine as he presses his lips to Sherlock’s pulse point, inching down slowly and sucking at the skin until the capillaries burst, a bold bruise blooming in the wake of their demise. He’s dreamed of this for years, fantasized about it under the cover of darkness with his own hand tight around heated skin, and now that it’s here, he never wants to open his eyes lest he wake and discover that it was a figment of his lustful imagination.

 

“John, _please,_ ” Sherlock moans, hips stuttering under John’s hands, his heart beating itself against the confines of his ribs as though it’s attempting to escape and crawl inside of John’s own chest.

 

Sherlock had been reluctant to remove his clothes, to take that final step a bare himself – body, mind, and soul – to John’s ministrations, horrified by his scars. John had peeled off his striped jumper and allowed Sherlock to explore the scars that littered his tan skin, to map them with questing fingers and shy lips.

 

“Do you think I’m ugly, Sherlock? Do you hate my scars?” The younger man had shaken his head vehemently, kissing every wound he could reach. “Are you disappointed with a broken soldier?” Another emphatic denial. “Then why should I think any less of you for your scars?”

 

“ _Oh_.”

 

“Each and every one of these,” John had run his hands over the raised skin and down into pocked burns. “Is an adoration, a promise, a vow,” he’d kissed the knife wound across his ribs, the whip marks on his shoulder, the bullet wound near his sternum. “And I love them as much as I love you, because they are a part of you and,” he’d lain Sherlock’s hand over the warped starburst on his own shoulder, over the grisly bullet wound that had sent him back to London. “They brought you back to me.”

 

Now, as they tangle together between the sheets, Sherlock pulls away and cups John’s face in his hands. “I don’t want to forget this,” he whispers, kissing John’s eyelids, his cheekbones, his chin. “When the other me comes back…I don’t want to forget this. He will still love you – he always has – but I don’t want him to get rid of this because he’s afraid.”

 

“I love you in every way, Sherlock – on a case, on ‘black days’, on lazy days, on experiment days – simply because you’re you. I will still love you, even if you forget.”

 

And for now, that’s enough.

 

***

 

Smell is always first. His sheets carry the heady aroma of sex, of salty sleep-warmed skin, of expensive shampoo and John.

 

Sound is next. The sounds of city life drift through the open window, creating an urban symphony alongside John’s steady heartbeat and gentle breathing, the soft swish of sheets rounding out the melody of early morning life.

 

Touch follows shortly after. The glide of fabric against his skin as he shifts, stubble scraping against his forehead, arms tightening around his shoulders, making him feel warm and protected and loved.

 

Sight is next to last, his eyelids fading from black to golden red as sunlight makes its appearance through the gaps in the curtains. His lashes flutter against tan skin, soft golden hairs hovering in his periphery.

 

Taste makes its presence known in the bittersweet veneer of _John_ lingering on his tongue.

 

His mind comes back online, a hundred thousand pieces of information flooding his system as he wakes, wrapped in a human blanket, enveloped in an enigma’s embrace. He slips into his mind palace and finds it whole, the ruined wings repaired, another wing arcing off of one hallway: John’s wing. The scraps of paper that had once been meaningless are significant once again, the information he’d lost – restored.

 

He emerges from his mind palace to find John watching him, a soft smile creasing the corners of his eyes.

 

He is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and he remembers.

 

He remembers _everything_.

 

And he’s done running.

 

“ _John,_ ” he breathes, kissing his flatmate-cum-best friend-cum-beloved deeply, pressing their bodies together.

 

There is so much that remains unspoken in that single word, so Sherlock pulls back and fills in the gaps, words tumbling from his lips as he kisses John’s face.

 

“I remember.” Brow. “I remember Bart’s and the cabbie.” Cheek. “I remember the Black Lotus and the pool.” Jaw. “I remember Irene and Henry and the Hound.” Nose. “I remember the rooftop and the grave and being Away.” Eyelids. “I remember Mary and Margnussen and the airplane.” Corner of the mouth “I remember forgetting and the time after. I remember everything.” Lips.

 

“And?” John whispers, his body tense as he clings to Sherlock’s every word.

 

“And I’m done running, done hiding. I love you. I have always loved you and always will.”

 

“I love you, too, you mad bastard. In any way, shape, or form.”

 

They spend the day renewing their vows – to love and protect and cherish – a dried out bouquet of forget-me-nots with wrinkled blue faces and faded yellow centres winking merrily on the bedside table.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Drop by and say hello on [my Tumblr](http://artfulinanities.tumblr.com/)


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